The Machine and the Desert

I am going down the only highway in a Camaro IROC, headed for the Big Bend.

“Slow down! You’re scaring me!” The Midget says.

The only way to go down this highway IS FAST. There is nothing on the road out of Alpine, TX and GOING FAST is the only way to get there; wherever it is.

The Crazy Cuban is wearing a pair of cutoffs and a halter top, so is the Midget. But it is the Midget I want to impress. I failed it though. We are rolling down the highway at 110 mph (177 kph), flat out with more pedal to spare. The road is straight an smooth.

“Should I push it more?” I ask myself.

It’s 110 F (43 C) and I have plenty to spare before I redline the IROC. At this rate, I should get to Lajitas in an hour and the Kingston Hot Springs 45 minutes after that. The IROC has a nice throaty sound when you push the pedal down.

I punch it down a little more and read 115 mph (185 kph) on the speedometer, while both ladies reach into the cooler for more beers. I stare straight ahead with both hands on the steering wheel and I feel like we are gliding on glass. The sooner I get there the sooner I get both of these sweethearts in a hot spring; then I will break out the sotol moonshine.

Until then it is white line fever and not a car in site. My mind is spinning round and round and the needles on the dials beckon me even more. The Chisos Mountains are getting closer, calling me like the Sirens with their lovely breasts.

It is noon, the lighting is harsh as the desert. Creosote bush whizzes past the side windows as the wheels grind away on the asphalt. I back off completely on the gas and the momentum lunges all of us forward. The throaty sound of the engine gets louder. Then as I shift into 3rd gear the rear wheels screech and we slow down.

“What’s the matter?” the Midget says relieved.

“Piss stop…beer dump.” I tell them both.

The heat rising from the desert floor is suffocating and impressive, the automobile likes it. There are no shadows, there are no whispers. Lizards scurry as I piss on a rock, flies start buzzing from the catclaw bushes as we disturb their peace. All is quiet but the sound of humans on the desert floor.

Once again I push the machinery and slide through each gear and once again the creosote and catclaw bush flash by in silence; Crazy Cuban likes this. The white lines pass underneath…tortured beneath the wheels and the needles on the dials still jitter at me.

We are hypnotized by the bleak expanse as we glide on top of it. We are soon on the river road lined with canyons and the bleak Solotario caldera.

“Such beauty! what is this called?” the Midget says.

Indeed, what is it called?…the machine and the desert. It is an odd symbiosis, it is unatural and I continue to lash through the heat, ripping through the quiet desert, in a metal sliver. The engine rumbles at a steady pace wanting more, surging more. The machine is hungry and left wanting.

The land and the roads are ancient followed so many times by so many others. The edge of the caldera looms above us to the right and soon the canyons above us to the left. Cave swallows and canyon wrens swerve before us as we disturb their domain.

The machine is the beast in this realm. It is gross in its manners but beautiful under my hand. It obeys me, with every inch of its metal.

We get our room at the Hot Springs finally. The 3 of us strip naked and ease down into 100 degree F (38 C) mineral water. Outside, in the quiet evening, the only sound I hear is the clanking of contracting metal as it cools and breathes. We all sizzle as we enter the water.

“It is a folly.” I say.

“What ees a fawly?” The Cubana asks.

“All of this. Every single bit of it.” I blurt out.

“You’re fucking nuts!” the Midget adds.

I splash water in both of their faces, as a mockingbird sings in the night and the clanking metal fades…the beast is asleep.